Chapter 5. The reason I move away from the Land Rover is not that I'm drawn to my Indian folk, my people, my tribe, dare I say my peeps, but that bear is starting to dry heave. It's really more of a life survival skill that I get as far from him as possible. My stomach will not taste another cheese flavored snack as long as I live. Okay, maybe I'll just take a break for a while, at least until dad can get the car detailed again, as I step farther from the car.
The first thing that assaults my senses is that smell. A sweet smell. Well, it's just a reprieve to get out of our Stentosaurus. But as I step out, I inhale, solely on the basis of instinct, and smell something so foreign, so striking, that I'm speechless. And this is saying a lot.
Not physically being able to utter anything is not what I'm used to. I just stand with the car behind me and sniff. And sniff.
And sniff again. Being from the city, I'm familiar with the scent of garbage in the morning, the perfume of exhaust fumes drifting from the freeway, and my personal favorite aroma, melting tar from parking lots. That's what my nose is at ease with.
But here, I step outside and inhale the fresh smell of fields never touched by development, the delicateness of pollen never polluted by fertilizer. Never in my life have I smelled something so amazing. But then I look back to the pink trailer.
and my senses reel me back to reality. My family is slowly shutting the car doors as we make our way up the crumbling sidewalk to the deck. As far as I can see, no one is getting up yet.
This is awkward. I'm starting to feel really self-conscious and nervous. Doesn't anyone want me? Here I am again in the middle, in the middle of two families, one from the past and one from the present.
I look back at my dad as he shrugs and gives me a sheepish grin, one that says, Sorry. This is quite possibly the most embarrassing situation I've ever been in. And when I get anxious, my mind takes over. It must be some ancient tribal survival protection mode.
I should politely introduce myself and my family. But who are we kidding? I have a track record for oddness.
I walk to the bottom of the steps, clear my throat, and say, Hello, crikey. Y'all have a right nice double wide. Does she come with a bobby for grilling a shrimp?
Yes, I revert to my foreign exchange student like I do every time I stress out. What else could I do? It's either hold my ground here, as a Sheila from down under, or go back in the vomit mobile. At that moment, there was a racket in the back row of the Indian audience.
I can hear a chair scraping as we all look in that direction. Either the cheese puffs are doing a number on my vision, or I see a mountain walking toward me. Something so large, so mammoth, that it's blocking out the sun. I'm still squinting, trying to make out what massive form is pounding out step by step toward me. Okay, so it's not a mountain, but it is the largest person I've ever seen.
He looks to be about 25 years old and pushing the scale at 400 pounds. With every thundering step he takes, a waterfall of blue-black hair swings behind him. I watch him.
My family watches him. His family watches him. From behind me, I can hear Bear whisper the phrase from his favorite professional wrestling show, let's get ready to rumble. At the end of the deck, right in front of me, the man who would be Mountain finally stops punishing the wooden steps underneath him and plants his feet, crossing his arms, the size of cannons, I might add. He stares at me.
He glares at me from head to toe. As I glance back at my dad, I can see him starting to give me a look of defeat. Dad starts to turn around and head back to the car, but he stops, dead in his tracks, when the mountain opens his mouth. Everyone, both red and white, gives the mountain our full attention.
The mountain turns back to his clan, sweeps a glare to my family, and sets his eyes on me, winks, and says, G'day, mate. With that, this lumbering giant starts a grin so wide it rips apart the chasm of both families. The Indian crowd opens a torrent of laughter and yells, Junior, come back up here, just as my family sighs relief. As the laughter dies down and we all catch our breath, I take a closer look at the group sitting on the deck.
Some have resumed talking quietly amongst themselves, which makes me think they are minor relatives. that are here to see me, but maybe not to welcome me. The mountain-sized man is chatting back on the porch. Then I see another couple.
They haven't taken their eyes off me and look at me with such a gentle gaze that I know exactly who they are. I know love when I see it, and I'll take all I can get. These two people are getting up from their chairs. They vaguely resemble an old photo my dad gave me years ago of my mom's parents.
The first one getting up is an older woman, maybe in her 60s, is wearing an apron, is short and stocky, and is slightly overweight with a mass of salt and pepper waves shaped closely to her head. Her skin is the color of cinnamon. Not like Cinnabons, that's much too dark.
With a soft ripple of wrinkles sprinkled about her face, she has a faint curl of a grin, fighting to stay quiet. The other person getting up is an older man, maybe in his 60s too, with a thick mass of jet black hair. Standing over six feet tall with a trim build, he sets his pipe back on the table next to him as he stands. He turns and says something to the woman wearing the apron.
and everyone on the deck laughs. For a second, I'm sure that they're laughing on my account, but I see him slowly look at me and his face softens to a calming smile and settling the storm. My storm. Apple, he says, come give your Mushom, your grandfather, a hug. The woman in the apron, who I assume is my grandmother, says, come here, my girl.
My dad walks back to me and murmurs softly in my ear, Apple. I sense you'll fit in just fine. Do you think you'll be okay? I smile, look up at him, and whisper back with a little crack in my voice. Dad, they had me at g'day.
My dad needs to do something to fill the awkward silence, so he starts unpacking the car. I may have overpacked a bit. A good packer plans for all occasions. Weddings, funerals, cotillions, sailboat regattas, and everything in between.
As I look around, I realized I should have thrown in some gardening attire and more cowgirl gear. I'll just need to make do with my three suitcases. Okay, I brought five, but can you blame me?
My grandparents are introducing my dad, my stepmom, and bear to everyone. The mountain of a man is my older second cousin, Junior, they explain. I know Junior usually means small, but in this case, I don't even want to know who the senior is.
Next, I meet three aunts, four uncles, five cousins, and three second cousins. After that, I sort of lose count. Mountainous Jr. keeps looking over at me.
You'd think I'd be a bit freaked out after him almost causing me to have a repeat of the cheese puffs incident, but he's not trying to intimidate me. Rather, keep an eye out for me. Little did I know then just how much he would become my protector.
Everyone helps me carry my cargo into the trailer. As I step inside, I realize it's much bigger on the inside. They don't call it a double wide for nothing. It opens to a small living room with a dining room squeezed off to the side and a back corner.
After that is the kitchen, which has every counter filled with boxes and containers of food. Does someone here do catering? It looks like enough to feed an army.
For some reason, I hear people saying in it a lot. It must be some type of nickname. My grandfather continues past the kitchen to the narrow hallway in back that holds the bathroom and three bedrooms. The bedrooms may look tiny, but they're each large enough to hold a full bed, a dresser, and a nightstand.
Thinking about my cavernous room back in Minnetonka, I'm sort of embarrassed at its excess. Apple, here's where you'll stay, my grandfather says as he stops abruptly at the second bedroom. My grandmother shoots him a pensive look. Will this be okay? It was your mama's room.
We haven't changed it that much. We like the way she decorated it, and everything is still in good condition. My grandma seems to get lost in her thought and doesn't finish her sentence.
We step inside to lay down my bags. I stop to look at the room. It isn't too big, yet it's cozy with pale purple walls and a quilt in the shape of a star hung on the wall over the bed.
Of course, I like the room. Thanks, I reply. I can see this room hasn't been used in a while because there are still remnants of the 1970s and 80s.
Which makes sense since my mother hasn't lived here since 1988 when she graduated from high school. At least that's what little my dad told me about her. Looking around, I realize this room is stuck in a time warp. Now when's the last time you saw an 8-track player? Have you forgotten about rotary dial phones?
Don't forget the Rush, ABBA, Duran Duran, and REO Speedwagon posters. It has it all here. There's one term to describe this room. Classic 1980s.
Have you ever noticed that you can read a lot about a person by checking out their bedroom? My mom's room has a lot to take in. It's almost too much to think of right now, but I know when I lie down on her bed to go to sleep, I'll be hoping to get to know her more. I've read that objects can take on and retain its owner's aura or presence. Please let that be right.
Everyone leaves me alone to finish packing. I put as many clothes as I can into the closets and dresser. I peek under the bed and notice a box filled with what looks like old 8-track music tapes, along with some other cassette tapes.
But I slide it to the side so I can shove my things under there. 8-track tapes were like book-sized music tapes that were all the rage. in the 1970s. It's not that I don't want to go out to visit with all of my relatives. I can hear them with my family in the kitchen.
Judy is politely trying to say she really isn't hungry, but thank you anyway for the venison jerky. Mmm, fresh dried deer. Bear, of course, is devouring any and everything offered to him. I'm so glad I won't be in the car with him again. That could be deadly.
Deer and spicy Cheetos leftovers? No thanks. My Minnetonka family comes in the bedroom and gives the obligatory hugs and goodbyes. Bear asks if I'm going hunting while I'm here because the venison jerky is awesome. I inform him that I didn't pack my Dayglo orange jumper, so no, I will not be going hunting or eating Bambi anytime soon.
It's a mixture of relief and sadness when I hear them get in the Land Rover and leave. They were my buffer for a few minutes between my relatives, but I have to make this work.